Les Chroniques Parisiennes
by Eledhwen
Summary: A historical Angelus fic, set in Paris in 1838. When Luc Tarpeau is interviewed for a job, he doesn't know quite what he's letting himself in for. *Complete!*
1. The Beginning

Disclaimer: I don't own Angel, Angelus or anything else in the Buffyverse – they belong to Joss Whedon and friends. However, Luc Tarpeau is mine.  
  
Author's notes: It is 1838, and for the time being, Angelus has left Darla behind in London as he settles in Paris for a spell of socialising and murder. But this isn't his story, not really. It's the story of one young Breton, sucked into a nightmare from which he cannot escape.  
  
  
  
Les Chroniques Parisiennes – Chronique 1: The Beginning  
  
"My father served briefly at court," Paul Genet said, "and my mother is housekeeper for a house on the Ile de la Cité." He pushed papers halfway across the desk. "I was taught by …"  
  
"Can you tie a cravat?"  
  
"Certainly, monsieur."  
  
"Clean shoes, light candles, open doors?"  
  
Paul Genet smiled slightly, somehow succeeding in being condescending and respectful at the same time. "Naturally, monsieur."  
  
"So can I. Therefore, why should I give you this position?"  
  
"Well, monsieur …" Genet hesitated, "I have excellent references."  
  
"Mmm." The papers were picked up, examined somehow in the dim light of the study, and dropped again. "I don't care about what people think. I care about what I think. The interview is over." Genet nodded, and rose, picking his hat up off the floor. "Wait – no, don't worry. Thank you."  
  
Paul Genet nodded and left the house into the evening, passing as he did so a young man hurrying into the courtyard. He never knew what a lucky escape he had had.  
  
"My name's Luc Tarpeau. I'm eighteen years old. I came to Paris last year searching for work; my father's a farmer in Brittany."  
  
"Why not farm?"  
  
Luc looked hopefully in the general direction of the voice, wondering what this man looked like.  
  
"It's … it's not a successful farm," he said. "The land's poor, and my father's only continuing because it was his father's before him. I'll earn more selling it than working it."  
  
"I see." The voice was soft, but behind the calm Luc fancied he heard a note of razor-sharp steel. "And why should I take you on? Why you, Luc Tarpeau?"  
  
Luc shrugged. "Because I need the job? Because you need a manservant?" He paused, and added belatedly, "monsieur?"  
  
There was a laugh from the shadows of the room. "I like your honesty, Luc. Honesty is perhaps the only true virtue, or at any rate, the only virtue actually worth having. I shall repay yours with my own." A rustle of movement and a hiss, and the gas lantern on the wall flickered into life. "There. See better?"  
  
"Much." Luc met the eyes of his prospective employer and nodded. "Much better, thank you."  
  
"You don't like the dark?" He was leaning back in a deep leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, dark eyes quizzing Luc. Luc shrugged.  
  
"It's not that I don't like it … but it's easier to see things with light."  
  
"Is it? I shall take your word for it. I rather like the dark. If I took you on, Luc, would it … bother you, if you worked mostly at night? Your days would be your own, the mornings at least."  
  
"No." Luc shook his head. "No, I don't think it would matter for me. I imagine I could become accustomed to it, monsieur."  
  
"Good. First things first, then, Luc Tarpeau, please drop the monsieur. I dislike it. And no lords either. I'm not one." His new employer laughed softly. "Far from it, in fact. Use my name. Call me Angelus."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Number two. If I employ you, which I rather think I might, you become mine." The steel in the voice was sharper now, more at the forefront, and Luc nodded. "Whatever you see here, whatever you hear here, remains inside your head. On the other hand, any rumours you get told from other servants in other households, about me, about my dealings, you come and you tell me. Immediately." The dark eyes, glinting oddly with a golden speck, bored into Luc's. "Thirdly, I would be very much obliged if you took off that crucifix you have around your neck and threw it away before moving in."  
  
"It was my mother's," Luc objected, frowning at the request – no, the order. He put his hand to his neck and drew out the chain, looking down at the delicate work. "It's rather precious to me." He looked up and froze.  
  
The creature opposite him, wearing the same sumptuous clothes, with the same colour hair, sitting in the same chair as Angelus, bared a pair of long deadly fangs and growled very low. Luc's mouth had gone dry, but he somehow managed to drag off the chain and put the cross away in a pocket, his eyes wide in panic and fear though he could not draw them away from the demonic yellow ones so close to him.  
  
"I … I …" he stammered, wanting desperately to get up and run away. The distorted features faded back into human ones.  
  
"That was number four," his employer said calmly. "And be very sure, Luc, be very sure indeed that should that filter out into society your death will be long and extremely painful." He smiled, an astonishing, charming smile. "If it doesn't get out, your death will be very quick and a while into the future." Angelus stood up, gracefully, and held out his hand. "You can move in this evening." Luc took the hand, cool and dry, and shook it. His own was still trembling. "Be here by seven. There are dangerous things out at night."  
  
Luc managed a smile in return, and turned to leave, when the calm voice stopped him. "By the way, your first task will be to find me a good chef. I'm afraid I have no idea of what good food for humans tastes like, but I'll need it when I give parties and so on. I don't care who, but they'll be well paid, and better paid if they keep their mouths closed too. Until this evening."  
  
Luc nodded, and opened the door. He felt, somehow, that a bow was appropriate, and nodded again more formally before escaping into the corridor.  
  
Angelus watched him go and then, a small smile on the corner of his lips, picked up a book, switched off the gas lamp and settled down contentedly to read. 


	2. The First Party

Disclaimer etc.: see chapter 1  
  
  
  
Les Chroniques Parisiennes – Chronique 2: The First Party  
  
Luc wandered through the silent house, exploring. Tall and elegant, the sandstone building overlooked a small courtyard and a green park, currently occupied by a few well-dressed ladies with parasols. The sunshine shone outside, but shaded by the thickest of soft velvet curtains, inside the rooms it was dark. Luc pulled back the hangings and turned to examine the room he was in, a shaft of golden sunlight shining on the walls. A music room, it appeared, with a harpsichord, stands, music piled on a shelf, and a violin case in a corner. Gilded chairs dotted the floor.  
  
He closed the curtains again and continued on through the luxurious salons, the breakfast room, the dining room fitted with a long mahogany table and matching chairs, silver candlesticks placed neatly down the centre; the library where the books lined every wall – an odd mixture, Luc mused, making out slowly some of the titles. Some were in Latin, some in French, many in English, and one or two appeared to be in yet another language that vaguely reminded Luc of his own Breton. Novels and philosophy, letters, La Rochefoucauld's Maximes, and on a shelf by themselves, books filled with pictures of creatures that made Luc shiver. He put the book away quickly and left the library behind him.  
  
Luc paused at the door to the study and passed it by, feeling instinctively that this was private territory. He wandered on, downstairs now to the spotless unused kitchen and scullery, and remembered he was supposed to find a chef from somewhere. He frowned at the shining pots and pans and hurried upstairs to his own spacious, sunlit attic room and fetched his hat and coat.  
  
When he got back shortly after lunchtime the study door was open, though no light came from the room, and as Luc passed a voice called him in. He took off his hat and followed the order.  
  
"Good afternoon." Luc bowed in response. "Enjoyed your morning?"  
  
"Yes. Thank you. I found a chef who says he could cook for parties."  
  
"Wonderful. He can start tomorrow. I plan, Luc, on giving a soirée that will be discussed for weeks. Longer, perhaps. I hope you're ready for a busy afternoon." The light hissed on and Luc found himself blinking at Angelus, who was reclining comfortably in his chair, dressed in a red dressing gown. "Remind me to turn on the light if I forget. Now, here," he passed Luc a list of addresses, "are the people I wish to invite, and here," a pile of visiting cards was added to the list, "is my card to leave at each house. Hire a cab or something if you feel it's too far to walk to them all." Angelus handed Luc a wad of folded notes. "When you've done that, or perhaps whilst you're doing it, go to a florist and order flowers for the house. I want them everywhere." Luc nodded, tucking the papers away in his coat. "Get the chef to come here so I can discuss menus with him. I need a small orchestra, but I'll deal with that myself come sundown."  
  
"Is that all?"  
  
"Call in at this tailor's and ask him to come this afternoon. Let's say the chef at four and the tailor at five, shall we? I would like you to be back here at seven and a hot bath to be ready by half-past."  
  
Luc nodded, his mind working feverishly on how he was possibly supposed to get all that done in the time he had. Angelus drew lines through items on a list with a heavy black pen.  
  
"Good. When I've gone out I won't need you again today."  
  
Luc bowed again and left.  
  
The afternoon was hectic. In the end he did hire a cab and together with the driver hurtled around Paris, delivering cards and invitations to a soirée the following evening. Luc ordered flowers and asked the tailor and the chef to call in on his master, and finally, weary and hot, he got back at seven precisely and hurried to heat water for a bath.  
  
Angelus appeared in the bathroom, silently, as Luc was adding salts to the water.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Luc jumped and almost dropped the jar of bath salts as he stood up and turned around. His employer nodded in satisfaction.  
  
"I – there are towels on the shelf, sir," Luc said, carefully replacing the bath salts in their place. "Would you like me to get some clothes out for you?"  
  
"There's a black silk jacket and trousers, gold cravat, hat and shirt," Angelus replied, passing Luc his dressing gown to hang up and slipping off the old shirt underneath. Luc took it and the day's trousers and turned to go. As he closed the door behind him, his breath caught at the magnificent tattoo that covered half of Angelus's back, the colours of the phoenix bright amid the steam from the bath.  
  
Thoughtfully he got clothes out of the wardrobe and spread them out on the huge double bed in his employer's sumptuous bedroom, and left with the dirty laundry in his arms.  
  
He followed Angelus out of the house shortly before nine and hurried in the opposite direction to an auberge where he and friends he had made in the few weeks he had spent searching for work were due to meet. The other young men were already there, and they cheerfully greeted their companion and made space for him around the table. Someone pushed a mug of coarse red wine at him.  
  
"Busy day, Luc, mon ami?" somebody asked, patting him heartily on the shoulder as he collapsed on to the bench.  
  
"And how!" exclaimed Luc, gulping the wine thirstily. He described his day for them.  
  
"Odd fellow, your what's-his-name."  
  
"You have no idea," Luc said seriously, though as he thought about it, apart from the fact that Angelus had spent the day inside, and the general gloom of the house, his employer's true nature had not been on his mind. He gulped more wine as the question of what Angelus might be doing now crossed his thoughts, and tried not to think about it. He remembered something else, and called for silence. "Who's busy tomorrow night?"  
  
"Me."  
  
"Not me. Not many of us."  
  
"I need to find waiters. This party's going to be big. I need people to serve food, drink, open the door … can you manage it?"  
  
The five friends arrived on time the next evening, entering the house through the back entrance into the kitchen. Luc was setting glasses and decanters ready on trays and dodging the chef and the chef's assistants. He loaded each young man up with a tray and they followed him up the stairs and into the salons, where the florist was putting the finishing touches to the flowers that trailed everywhere and the orchestra was tuning up noisily.  
  
Luc relit candles that had gone out and positioned his friends around the rooms, checking his watch every second. Shortly before nine, as he was adjusting a display of orchids, Angelus appeared, surveying his house with pleasure.  
  
"Luc, congratulations. It all looks wonderful."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Everything's ready? Excellent. You found me some waiters?"  
  
Luc took him through the various rooms and introduced him to his friends, and Angelus smiled disarmingly at them and promised handsome payment at the end of the night. Outside the first sound of carriage wheels rattling on the cobbles alerted them, and Angelus, with a final satisfied look at the room he was in, and a short but intense glance at the youngest and handsomest of Luc's acquaintances, clapped his hands and called for music.  
  
The house was soon buzzing with the noise of dancing and talking, fans fluttering and expensive fabrics sweeping the floors. Luc and his friends circulated with drinks and small tidbits of food, bowed and smiled and watched the girls. Luc, remembering what he had been told by Angelus, kept his ears open for the reaction to his employer – but he also watched the latter as he reigned over the party. It did not take Luc long to realise the extent of Angelus's charm on men and women. The younger girls whispered in corners, their mothers chattered admiringly; the young men talked of him as a man after their own hearts, and the older ones compared him favourably to their sons. And nobody, not one soul, appeared to suspect the secret that Luc held to himself in terror.  
  
When time came for supper, the guests crowded into the dining room and hovered around the table spread with delicacies, murmuring delighted noises about the food and the wine. Luc, serving chicken, noticed that Angelus nibbled half-heartedly at the food, though he drank plenty enough with no noticeable effect.  
  
The dancing went on past two o'clock, and then, finally, the carriages began to rattle away again. Luc brought coats and capes and hats to people until the room set aside for them was empty, and then closed and locked the door and went back into the party rooms.  
  
Angelus was sitting back in a chair, a glass of red wine in his hand and a satisfied smile on his lips.  
  
"A success!" he said, as Luc began to collect glasses and put them on a tray. "Wouldn't you say so?"  
  
Luc picked up an empty champagne flute and added it to the others. "Certainly."  
  
"So what were they saying? I saw you listening – and watching." Angelus's smile disappeared. "Luc?"  
  
"They were … all very complimentary," Luc said. "About everything."  
  
"Good. Good." Angelus nodded and drained his wine glass before putting it on Luc's tray. "Go and fetch your friends and I'll pay them."  
  
Luc wondered a little at this, reflecting that surely it was more his job to pay any help he had hired, but he took the glasses to the kitchen and brought his friends back up to his employer before leaving to begin clearing the dancing room. He heard the front door close as he took more glasses downstairs and ran water to soak them in before going up to start putting out the candles. It was nearly four in the morning.  
  
Snuffer in hand, Luc passed through each room, leaving behind him a trail of smoke from the dead candles, dried wax dripped down the candlesticks. He yawned, the fatigue beginning to hit him, and pulled open the closed door to the next room.  
  
The brass snuffer dropped to the floor, clattering on the wood. Luc stood frozen, his hand still on the handle, wanting to run, to scream, to do something.  
  
The room was not empty. On the small table by the chair, a bundle of notes lay abandoned, a carafe of wine drained; but Luc could not drag his horrified eyes or his numbed mind away from the chair itself. The monster had been resurrected, and in its arms, limp, pale, was Luc's delicate friend. His black tie lay on the floor and a thin trickle of blood ran down the white shirt from the wound on the neck.  
  
Angelus lifted the yellow eyes at Luc's gasp of terror and dropped the young man on the floor, carelessly, before standing and crossing the floor. Luc tried to back away but discovered that the door had closed behind him. Trapped. He was trapped. And he had nothing to protect himself with, no cross, no weapon of any kind. He stared at the fresh blood on the fangs, smeared around the mouth, and knew it was his turn next.  
  
Angelus stopped a pace away from Luc, one hand reaching into a pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. It seemed as if he wiped the demonic visage away with the blood. Luc felt his knees give way and he would have sunk to the floor save for the arm that shot out to support him and help him to a chair.  
  
"He was my friend," he managed to say, eventually. "I brought him here."  
  
"And I'm very grateful," Angelus replied easily, sitting down again. "He was well chosen."  
  
"What are you?" Luc said, swallowing down his disgust and feeling cold anger and hatred replace it.  
  
"You knew very well what I was when you accepted this job," Angelus said, folding the handkerchief up and putting it back in his pocket. "Or have the legends of Brittany neglected vampires recently?"  
  
"I don't know." Luc shook his head. "I … I didn't … I didn't think about it." He stopped, and corrected himself. "Yes, I knew. But I imagined, I thought you would … kill … elsewhere. People I didn't know."  
  
"And that makes it better?"  
  
"Yes." Luc felt dreadful, facing the truth. "Yes. I needed the money. I needed this job."  
  
Angelus smiled. "You poor, pathetic creatures. Tenuous friendships but such affecting loyalty. How long had you known him? Three weeks?" Luc bowed his head. "He died quickly. If that makes you feel any better, my dear Luc." The vampire came to Luc's chair and tipped his head up. In the dark eyes there was a spark of confidence and certainty, and something else, that made Luc's blood run cold. "In the end who will miss him? Who would miss you?"  
  
"My family."  
  
"You like to think that, but really they wouldn't miss you, not that much. They'd get on with their own lives on that miserable little farm you were so eager to escape. Like mine did. Until I killed them." Angelus ran a cold finger down Luc's jawbone and it came to rest on the side of his neck. "Tonight was your first lesson. There'll be more." Before Luc could react, or move, or even think, the face had changed again, and the cold finger on his skin was replaced by a sharp, sudden pain. Luc clutched the edge of the chair he was sitting in, tried to break away, but his arm was held by a vice. He felt himself slipping, shadows crowded his vision …  
  
And then Angelus had straightened up, become human again, and the silk handkerchief was pressed against the wound. Luc's mouth was forced open and something strong poured down it. Cognac. He found himself feeling stronger at once, and blinked his eyes once or twice.  
  
"I've marked you," Angelus said, holding Luc's hand over the handkerchief and moving away. "I don't want some newborn idiot catching you. That scar will say Angelus to any fool who looks. You're mine now. Go and get some sleep. Tidy up in the morning."  
  
Luc stood slowly, feeling a little dizzy still. "And … and Jean-Marc?" he asked, gesturing at the body on the floor. Angelus glanced at it disdainfully.  
  
"Normally I'd tell you to get rid of it, but you're in no state at present. I'll deal with it. Go."  
  
Nodding, Luc turned and went slowly out, holding the bloodstained handkerchief to his neck, and up to his room, shaky from fear and the knowledge that from now on his life was in thrall to a demon, a monster; and he could see no way of escaping. 


	3. Edward

Disclaimer etc.: see chapter 1  
  
Les Chroniques Parisiennes – Chronique 3: Edward  
  
Luc took the card and glanced down at it. 'Mme. de Chezine,' he read, and remembered a lady in red silk at the party. "I'm afraid my master's out," he lied to the manservant opposite him. "I'll inform him that Madame has called." He looked past the other man to the carriage parked in the courtyard and bowed. The servant nodded.  
  
"And I'll tell Madame that Monsieur will call to see her shortly, shall I?"  
  
"I couldn't say when …" Luc said guardedly.  
  
The other man smiled broadly. "He should call," he replied, dropping the stiff formal manner and winking. "He's the talk of all the salons. The girls can't think of anything else. But he'll lose face if he doesn't appear soon. Or hold another party."  
  
"I'll tell him," Luc said, returning the smile. "Thank you."  
  
"No problem. Good afternoon."  
  
"Goodbye," Luc said, closing the door. He glanced at his watch and hurried up the stairs. He tapped first at the bedroom door, but no answer came, and when he cautiously opened it, the room was empty. Hurrying down one flight again, he tried the study and was rewarded with a brisk, "Enter."  
  
"I heard the carriage," Angelus said, looking up from a book. "Who was it?"  
  
Luc passed him the card, and Angelus glanced at it and tossed it on to the desk. "Plump woman, dark hair. Thinks highly of herself."  
  
"She thinks highly of you. Apparently, they all do," Luc reported. "According to their servant you're the talk of the town."  
  
He expected his employer to show some pleasure, but instead Angelus frowned. "Talk of the town in what way?"  
  
"I was told the girls are speaking only of you. In admiration. But also that you should attend some of the salons. Or receive visitors, or something. Surely," he ventured, "if you want to remain … if you don't want people to find out …"  
  
"No, I don't. Spoils the fun. There's no point in hunting if there's no fun. And people start eating garlic and putting crucifixes everywhere. But equally going out in the daytime isn't going to do me any good at all." Luc must have looked puzzled, because Angelus growled very slightly in annoyance. "For heaven's sakes, Luc, go and read some vampire lore." He got up and pulled a book off the shelves. "This is reliable. If you're going to work for me, learn something." He sat down again, and shot Luc a look of pure irritation. "Go and read that, and go and find me, for tomorrow afternoon, a carriage with thick curtains and some sort of heavy coat."  
  
Luc bowed and hurried out.  
  
They were ready at two the next day. It was gloriously sunny, and Luc, happy at getting a chance at going out in the afternoon, was in a good mood. His master was not.  
  
"How close is the damned carriage?"  
  
"As close as the driver can get it. About ten metres."  
  
"This coat's not long enough. If one particle of me gets burned, Luc, you will know the meaning of pain."  
  
Luc's good mood abated slightly, and he swallowed and nodded, pulling an umbrella out of a stand. "I'll … I'll go and open the door of the carriage, and then come back." He slipped out of the door and matched his words to the action, and then arrived back in the hallway, putting the umbrella up and holding it over Angelus's head.  
  
They made it to the carriage without mishap, and Luc breathed a sigh of relief as he joined the driver on the seat outside. At their destination the process was reversed, and Luc left Angelus to his visit and took the book he had been told to read to a nearby garden.  
  
It was slow going. Luc had been taught his letters by the local priest when he was a boy, but mostly his reading had been confined to newspapers and religious texts. This was something else entirely, written in slightly old- fashioned French and printed closely. But Luc valued his life, and he put the book on his knees and bent over it.  
  
At the end of two hours, when it was the hour to go and return for Angelus, he had got to the end of Chapter Three and learnt about what makes vampires, myths, and begun distinguishing characteristics. Small things he had noticed about his master were beginning to fall into place, and he tucked the book under his coat and went to rouse the carriage driver.  
  
On arrival back at the house Angelus almost threw the heavy coat at Luc, who staggered under the weight, and stormed away; only to pause halfway up the stairs.  
  
"Bath at the usual time, your evening's free."  
  
"But …" stammered Luc, clutching the coat, "I thought you were going to the theatre."  
  
"Two hours a day in the company of those people is enough," Angelus shot out. "The theatre's cancelled." He turned and vanished up the stairs and Luc heard the bedroom door slam shut.  
  
He took the vampire book down to the kitchen when Angelus had gone, and cooked himself a simple omelette, and poured himself a glass of wine. Time ticked by in the silent house, and Luc found himself absorbed in the book. He had reached Chapter Nine, and had just read about vampires having to be invited into a house where a human lives, when the doorbell rang.  
  
Luc shot up from his seat and knocked the empty wine glass over. The doorbell rang again, insistently, and he picked up his discarded tie and put it on as he hurried to answer, collecting a candle from the sideboard as he passed.  
  
Facing him on the doorstep was a young man, about his own age, Luc surmised, with light blond hair and green eyes. Gaunt and pale, his clothes were travel stained, and he looked first at Luc and then down at a scrap of paper in his hands before speaking.  
  
"Is Angelus in?" Luc hesitated. "Do I have the right address?"  
  
"Yes, monsieur. But he's not in."  
  
"Damn!" The other swore in English. "Did he say where he'd gone? Or when he's due back?"  
  
"Before dawn?" Luc hazarded.  
  
"That goes without saying," the young man replied. He eyed Luc and tipped his head on one side as if listening to something. "You live here, don't you? I can't come in."  
  
Luc moved a step back from the threshold, clutching his candle and remembering the book had said something about fire. The vampire outside scowled.  
  
"Damn him. Look, can you give him a message? Do you have any paper?"  
  
Luc put the candlestick down on the sideboard and passed some paper out, and the vampire scribbled something down with a scrap of pencil and passed it back. "Just tell him that Darla wants him to come home. Just that. I'll come back in a few hours." He regarded Luc. "I don't suppose you'd …"  
  
Luc took the paper and pocketed it, and then wordlessly pulled down his collar to display the scar. The vampire sighed deeply.  
  
"He thought of everything, as usual. All right. Thank you." He nodded at Luc and turned, disappearing into the shadows. Luc closed the door and went slowly back to the warm, firelit kitchen.  
  
He was dozing in his attic when he heard the door slam below, and he threw himself out of bed and pulled on a coat and went hurrying down to intercept his employer. Angelus appeared to be in a significantly better mood than when he had left the house.  
  
"You didn't wait up?"  
  
"No. There was a visitor." Luc handed over the note, and Angelus read it quickly. "I was told to tell you that, erm, someone called Delia, or something, wants you home."  
  
"Darla. Of course she does. You didn't invite him in?" Luc shook his head. "Well done. I imagine he's coming back. Go to sleep, I'll deal."  
  
Lost in a haze of uncomfortable dreams, Luc was woken a few hours later with the grey light of dawn peeping through his shutters and the sound of raised voices from below him. He lay half-awake and listened, though the language was unfamiliar, and only snatches filtered up to him.  
  
"Darla … heard about …"  
  
"Slayer? … of course … go back and tell her …"  
  
Luc rolled himself up in his blankets again and tried to go back to sleep.  
  
He got back much later on in the day following lunch and a walk, relishing the fresh daylight where no nightmares haunted him, and let himself into the darkened house. Dark, but not silent. From the music room he heard the tones of a violin, expertly played, and he followed the noise and tapped gently on the door. By now Luc knew that however quietly he walked, spoke, or carried out any other of his tasks, he would be heard; and that in contrast he would very seldom hear his employer move around or enter a room. It unnerved him still, every time, and now he entered at the command and stood just inside the door as the sonata ended.  
  
"You should make a career of that, Edward," Angelus said in English to his visitor.  
  
"Think of the people you could meet."  
  
"And eat," said the blond vampire, grinning back. "Thank you."  
  
Angelus turned his head. "Luc. Good afternoon." He had switched languages to French and Luc bowed in return. "You met Edward, I think?"  
  
"Good afternoon, sir," Luc said. "The music was … lovely."  
  
Edward put the violin away in its case. "Thank you." He turned to Angelus. "This is your Luc?" he asked in English. "Remarkable find."  
  
"I intend to keep him," Angelus returned curtly. "He's mine."  
  
"I saw."  
  
"Of course," Angelus continued lightly, still in English, "he's utterly terrified, but he's doing a good job of hiding it." He changed languages for Luc's benefit. "And now he's wondering what on earth we're discussing. You, my friend. Edward thinks you're remarkable." Luc wondered what to make of this. Angelus gave him one of his lopsided, winning smiles. "What he means, of course, is that most people run a mile once they know me. Now, Luc, this evening there will be a group of us, and we will need food."  
  
"I'll – I'll go and fetch the chef later," stammered Luc, feeling uneasy under the smile.  
  
"Us. Not that sort of food. How many will we be, Edward?" Angelus turned to his friend.  
  
"There's about ten," the other vampire returned, smiling too at Luc's discomfort.  
  
"Ten. Very well. Luc, this afternoon I would like you to find us ten of those urchins that infest these streets, bring them here and feed them up. Nothing too fancy, but give them some wine to calm them down. Promise them money if you have to. Make sure they're clean, take them upstairs and give them something to do. Then you can go out, if that's what you want."  
  
Luc's throat was dry and he had unconsciously balled his hands into fists. "I can't do that," he said in a hoarse whisper. "You can't ask me to do that."  
  
"I can't see why not," Angelus said, losing the smile. "You're not doing any harm. They belong to nobody. All I'm asking you to do is to give them food and clean clothes."  
  
Luc shook his head. "I … I can't. I'm not stupid. Jean-Marc, that was bad; I can't bring children here to die."  
  
Edward sat down in a chair and avoided Luc's desperate looks, playing with his cravat. Angelus stood up.  
  
"You have no choice in the matter, Luc."  
  
"If I leave now, and go, you can't follow me."  
  
"But I'll find you," Angelus said, very low. "Every night you'll be quaking in fear because you'll know I'm looking for you, and I'll find you." In a flash he was next to Luc, caressing the scar on his neck. "This is my mark, and you'll carry it until one day, one night, it'll be broken open again and your blood will stain the floor of whatever pathetic hiding place you found. Defying me is dangerous." Luc tried to say something, but the hand around his neck was cutting off the air, his arms flailed but gained no purchase. Eventually, his spirit giving up, he forced a nod. Angelus let go. "What did you say?"  
  
"I'll … I'll do it. I'll do it." Luc closed his eyes. "Master."  
  
Angelus nodded, and turned around. "Go and find them, then."  
  
Luc spent the night in a tavern, drinking and drinking until his memories and his thoughts were a welcome blur, and when dawn rose he woke slumped against a wall, his head still spinning. Feeling ill, he got up unsteadily and wandered the early morning streets until his head was clearer. And then the events of the afternoon before came flooding back. The ten children had been easy to find, and they were cheerful and awed by the house and the food Luc gave them; they played with the bath water until the kitchen was damp, and seemed perfectly happy to be left with games Luc had unearthed. Then he had knocked on Angelus's door, told him they were there, and left.  
  
Luc leant his head against the stones of the building he found himself by and cried for the street children. Unknown and unloved they had been, perhaps, but they were dead now, and who deserved that?  
  
A hand on his shoulder startled him, and he spun around ready to attack whatever it was that had interrupted.  
  
The priest smiled softly at him. "Come, my son. Gently, now." Luc looked up at the spire of the church and closed his eyes. "Tell me what's wrong."  
  
"Father, I wish to confess."  
  
The little box was dark and cool and the church silent. Through the grill Luc could make out the contours of the priest's old face. "I've sinned, Father."  
  
"All sins can be forgiven, my son, if you are penitent."  
  
"Penitent? I didn't want to do it, Father, but I had no choice. God forgive me, I had no choice."  
  
"Calm, my son. Tell me what ails you."  
  
"I – I've sold my soul, I think, or near enough. I've brought innocent children to their deaths. I didn't want to." Luc started talking, and let his worries out to the priest who murmured and encouraged and nodded until the tale was ended.  
  
"God will forgive you," the old man said at the end, "but I may be able to do better. Follow me."  
  
Luc pressed his face to the grill. "But, Father?"  
  
"Ave Marias can wait," the priest said grimly. "Come."  
  
They went through a door into the vestry and through another door into a small study, where the old priest closed the door and sat down, indicating that Luc should take the seat opposite. "You came to the right place. What's your name, my son?"  
  
"Luc Tarpeau. I'm from Morbihan in Brittany."  
  
"And you fell into this employ by accident, almost?" The priest had pulled paper and pen to him and was writing busily.  
  
"I saw a notice in a paper, and went to be interviewed for it. I – I knew, before I accepted, but I had no choice. I don't want to die, Father."  
  
"Nobody does," the priest said unexpectedly. "We all know that our Heavenly Lord is there waiting for us, but in the end we value our lives too much. Lives are to be valued." He dipped his pen in the ink pot. "The Lord works in mysterious ways, Luc, and He must have brought you here today. It so happens that I, and some of my colleagues in this city, have been watching for Angelus. He thinks he's clever, and indeed he shows more than the usual cunning, but hiring you may be the undoing." The priest shook sand over the paper and blew it off before turning over. "Not long ago, less than a twelvemonth, Angelus killed one of my brethren in a small village just outside Paris. As men of the Church, we all have connections to those who fight Evil, and since the death of Jacques we've been watching. I shall sent this account to them, and in a short while someone will come to destroy him."  
  
"What?" Luc was shaken out of a sleepy sense of peace. "How?"  
  
"The usual way. Stake him, or burn him. I imagine the simplest way would be for you to let them in …"  
  
"No." Shaking his head, Luc felt ill again. "No."  
  
The priest signed and folded his letter. "Why not, my son? You fear him, you hate him."  
  
"Yes. Yes, I do, but if I help your people and they fail – I won't be able to help anymore. Not at the house. Elsewhere. Not at the house. Suppose they chose a day when there were … others there, like today? I told you, Father, there were ten of them last night." The tears started rolling again, and Luc wiped at them angrily. "I'm … scared, and he knows I am. But if I back away now he'll kill me."  
  
The priest sealed the letter and got up to pat Luc on the shoulder. "There." He put the letter into Luc's pocket. "Post this for me, at least, Luc, and come whenever you feel the need. Good luck." He placed his hand on Luc's head. "The blessings of the Father be with you, my son. You should probably start to head back there."  
  
Luc nodded, and stood up. He took the old priest's hand and kissed it humbly. "Thank you, Father." 


	4. A Message from England

Disclaimer etc.: see chapter 1  
  
Les Chroniques Parisiennes – Chronique 4: A Message from England  
  
"Luc!" The voice echoed through the house, and Luc sat up sharply in bed. "Luc!"  
  
He dragged on a robe and, fastening the belt, ran down the stairs. In the hallway, leaning heavily against the door, Angelus glared at him from behind yellow eyes.  
  
"Lock the door and block it with something." Luc hesitated. "Now!"  
  
By the time he had managed to drag a table and upturn it next to the door, his master had returned to a human face; and Luc took in the torn clothes and the bloodstains with a horrible jolt of memory. In a short while somebody will come to destroy him. And he heard his own voice, small and shaken, returning: But what if they fail?  
  
"Hot water and bandages," Angelus ordered, breaking through the memory. "Bring them to my room. And hurry, you idiot."  
  
Luc nodded and ran for the things, adding some iodine to the bundle, and carrying the bowl of water carefully headed up the stairs.  
  
Angelus had reached his room and was slumped in a chair, pale and evidently angry. Wordlessly Luc helped him take off his shirt and began to wash the wounds.  
  
"They've stopped bleeding," he volunteered, rinsing the cloth in the water.  
  
"Good." Angelus flinched. "What was that?"  
  
"Iodine," said Luc, winding bandages around a particularly deep stab wound. Angelus reached for the decanter of whisky standing on a low table near him and poured himself a generous measure. When Luc had finished the bandages he stood up with the bowl. "Is that all?"  
  
"Wait a moment. Put down that water." Angelus met Luc's eyes hard. "Do you speak English, Luc? Have you ever met any Englishmen in those auberges you go to? Any strangers talked to you, asked you where you work, who you work for?"  
  
"No!" exclaimed Luc, honestly, but not liking where the questioning was going.  
  
"You've never noticed anyone following you? None of the servants in other houses have said anything, anything whatsoever?"  
  
"No. Nothing like that. Nothing at all. What happened?"  
  
Angelus frowned and picked up his whisky again, downing the glass in a swallow and pouring another. "I was attacked. By men who knew who they were attacking, and had at least the basic knowledge of what to attack with." He examined a mark on his hand. "Crosses, stakes, holy water."  
  
"I don't know anything," Luc said. "Believe me. I know no such men."  
  
"Hmm." Angelus regarded him. "They're dead, anyway, and tomorrow the police will find them in small pieces; but I am on the watch."  
  
Luc turned and opened the door, and with the bowl of bloody water left Angelus alone.  
  
In the morning he went out early, having slept badly, his dreams filled with visions of blood and the mocking smile of Angelus; but only ten minutes away from the house he was stopped dead by the dark uniforms of the city police and wooden barriers across a street.  
  
"I'm sorry, monsieur, you'll have to take another route," the policeman said.  
  
"What happened?" asked Luc, thinking with a sickening feeling in his stomach he probably knew the answer.  
  
"We're investigating that, monsieur," the policeman said, politely. "There appears to have been a murder. Now if you'll just move on …"  
  
Luc nodded, and turned away, but not before having seen lying on the ground, separate from a body, a head with its mouth frozen in a scream, a livid cross emblazoned on its cheek. He hurried off.  
  
"I'm going to hold another party," Angelus announced, later that day, having summoned Luc to his study. "On Friday, I think. Like the last, except this time there'll be a sit-down supper rather than a buffet. The same orchestra. Different waiters, if you will, Luc; and you needn't worry about their health."  
  
Luc noted down 'orchestre' in his careful hand on a piece of paper and looked up. "Why?" he asked, before regretting asking it. Angelus seemed to be in one of his friendly, human moods; approachable and normal, but Luc revised the opinion with the calm answer.  
  
"Because I have other people in mind." Angelus smiled. "In any case, it would be foolish to take another of your friends, my dear Luc; they might grow suspicious." He moved some papers. "That's all regarding the party, but I would value your opinion on something quite different. A letter. It's in English, but I'll translate it for you …"  
  
Luc waited.  
  
"It's to the people who sent those attackers last night. By the way, did you see anything of them this morning, when you went out?"  
  
"The police were there."  
  
"And what did you think of my handiwork?"  
  
"It put me off my breakfast," Luc admitted. Angelus smiled his appreciation.  
  
"Good. Excellent. Now, listen to this. 'Sirs; I am writing to express my condolences for the untimely deaths of your team sent to Paris this week. They came to an unnecessary end. If you feel that I am not worthy of a more efficient solution, kindly desist from sending any more of your people. It would be an unfortunate waste of their time, and I am quite sure that the pleasure each time would be all mine. Any other Watchers sent here will meet a similar end to their predecessors. Yours, Angelus, etc. etc.'" Angelus let the letter flutter to his desk and fixed his gaze on Luc. "Well? Be honest."  
  
"Honestly," Luc said, trembling a little that he dared to voice the opinion, "it makes me feel as ill as what I saw this morning." He waited for the reaction.  
  
"Perfect." Angelus slipped the letter inside an envelope, melted some wax, and sealed it with the gold ring he wore before turning it over and addressing it. "Just what I wanted to hear. Sometimes judging the human reaction is so difficult." He passed the envelope to Luc. "Post that when you go out with the invitations. Of course," he added, nonchalantly, "when their breath is being squeezed out of them, the reaction is so predictable."  
  
Before dropping the letter in the post box, Luc glanced at the address in Angelus's bold handwriting. "The Council of Watchers," he read, "Stokeham House, Wimbledon Common, London, England." And as he went on with his pile of invitations, he wondered what the Council of Watchers meant, and what they were.  
  
His thoughts, his fears, his doubts, his worries; all were swept away in the preparations of the next two days. Invitations to everyone who mattered in Paris, waiters to be found, the chef to be persuaded to cook again, flowers and decorations and music. But as before, the night went perfectly. Halfway through the night, when everyone had arrived and nobody was leaving, Luc went outside to catch a breath of air and to chat to some of the other servants, waiting together inside a carriage parked in the courtyard. They seemed pleased to see him, and even more pleased with the wine he brought them.  
  
"Where's he from, your bloke?" one of them asked in a gruff Alsatian accent. "Not been here long, has he?"  
  
"Somewhere in Britain," Luc said, carefully. In actual fact he was not very sure. Simple matters of origins did not seem to be very important.  
  
"He gives good parties and has good wine and that's all I'm bothered about," someone else said, laughing. "It's all the mistress is bothered about too."  
  
"And mademoiselle?" another man said, taking the wine bottle.  
  
"Oh, mademoiselle," the other replied, "is, so her maid reports, completely and utterly in love."  
  
"In love?" said Luc, surprised.  
  
The footman laughed again. "Oh yes. Bits of love letters in the fires when I stoke 'em up. Her maid says she's been sitting for hours at the window staring into space. Got it bad. I reckon most of them are half in love with your whats-is-name …"  
  
"Angelus," Luc said absently.  
  
"Yeah. Whatever. And in any case it gives them something to do, something to think about rather than these murders."  
  
There was an assenting murmur from the others. "Did you see the police around the other day?" someone asked, with a grimace. "Folk said there were three men in bits on the roadway. In bits, mark you."  
  
Luc took the wine bottle and drank deeply.  
  
"I heard that the Rochefort's kitchen maid had been found dead in an alleyway," the footman who had expounded his theory of love said, darkly. "Drained of her blood, or so I heard."  
  
"Jesus Maria!" the Alsatian exclaimed, crossing himself.  
  
"Not a drop in her," the other affirmed. "It's not the work of a man, that. It's something else."  
  
Luc glanced at his watch and muttered an excuse, hurrying back to the house. Behind him, the other servants looked at each other and shrugged, and the talk turned to other subjects.  
  
People began to leave after midnight, leaving invitations to salons, to soirées and the theatre, as they went, and the carriages rolled away. As the last group left Angelus appeared from a room, murmuring something to a handsome woman in her thirties who laughed coyly and accepted her wrap from Luc before leaving with a backwards glance at her host. Angelus smiled.  
  
"Luc, my coat. Quickly, please."  
  
Luc ran and fetched it, and Angelus disappeared out after the departing coach. Luc turned and with the help of the hired waiters began clearing away the debris of the party.  
  
He had paid off the servants and was going around putting out the last of the candles when his master returned, jubilant with the success of the party and full of light good humour. He threw himself down in a chair and grinned cheerfully at Luc with his snuffer.  
  
"Any news from the coachmen, Luc?"  
  
"They spoke of the deaths in the city," Luc said carefully, choosing his words. "They have their own ideas. But I don't believe they connect it with you. I was told most of the women and girls are in love, sir."  
  
"Of course they are." Angelus put his hand in his pocket and drew out a string of pearls, running them through his fingers. "They always are. Here." He tossed the necklace to Luc, who caught it automatically. "Give them to your sweetheart or something."  
  
Luc thought with a shiver that he remembered the handsome lady wearing pearls. "I don't have a girlfriend," he said.  
  
"Well, you should do. A handsome young man like you, my Luc."  
  
"I don't want to put a girl through the pain of losing me," Luc retorted, almost rudely. "What's the point? One day you'll kill me."  
  
"Probably. All the more reason to live a little first. Keep the pearls. I'm going to bed."  
  
Angelus stood up with his easy grace and wandered away, examining a nail as he did so.  
  
Luc spent most of the next afternoon tidying up and running a feather duster around the rooms, but he was interrupted at four by a knock on the door, repeated and urgent. Tucking the duster away, he went to answer it.  
  
The woman waiting behind the door was alone, dressed in a travelling suit of good brown cloth and a smart, but unfashionable, hat. Her face was tired and her eyes shone guardedly out under the hat brim.  
  
"Monsieur Tarpeau?" she said, softly, her voice accented.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Is he asleep?" the woman asked. "Is he here?" Before Luc could think of an answer, she stepped inside the house. "I'm from the Council of Watchers in London, monsieur. Do you know what that is?"  
  
"V – vaguely," Luc stammered.  
  
"He must be killed!" the woman said, still softly but urgently. "Let me go now. While he's asleep."  
  
"He'll kill you!" Luc said. "Those men you sent – they died. Three of them. You haven't a chance, madame."  
  
"Mademoiselle," the woman said. "Rebecca Kent. One of those men was my brother, monsieur. I have nothing left in life but the desire to kill this monster."  
  
Luc glanced away towards the stairs. "He'll hear you, mademoiselle. For God's sake go! Please, just go. If he finds you here he'll kill both of us."  
  
"I have to destroy him," Rebecca Kent said desperately. "You understand? I have to destroy him."  
  
"He has to be destroyed, but I don't know who could do it," Luc said, backing her towards the open door. "I can't – I can't let you try, mademoiselle. Not here." There was the creak of a board from upstairs and the Englishwoman whipped out a wooden stake from her bag. "Go!" Luc said. "Please."  
  
Her body sagged, and she allowed herself to be pushed towards the doorway. "All right," she murmured. "Farewell, for now, monsieur. And don't … don't tell him I came." 


	5. Belonging

Disclaimer etc.: see chapter 1  
  
Author's note: this part turned very dark. I've upped the rating accordingly. There are a couple more chapters to come, but that'll probably be in a couple of weeks due to Easter.  
  
  
  
Les Chroniques Parisiennes – Chronique 5: Belonging  
  
Luc was cleaning the kitchen, the door wide open and sunshine streaming in. He hummed as he scrubbed, thinking of the letter he had received from his parents just that morning. It had arrived along with a missive in violet ink on fine parchment addressed to Angelus, which he had pushed under the bedroom door before starting on the kitchen. His own letter lay open on the table, and he paused as he crossed the room to the stone sink to slowly read it through again.  
  
"My dear Luc," he read, his lips forming the words, "many thanks for the money you sent us in your last letter. We are all very glad you have found a place with a good employer and trust he treats you kindly. Here all is well; the lambing season has begun and promises well. The doctor's son shows an interest in your sister, and we hope that he will propose to her that she may settle as well as you. 'Da garout ar an.'*  
  
"Maman."  
  
Luc smiled, and folded the paper up. "I love you too," he murmured, and went to rinse out his cloth at the sink. Around him, the kitchen gleamed with care and, if Luc admitted it to himself, very little use. In his mind he ran over the day's tasks – for once, his evening was free, but before that there was an afternoon's salon, and he had to prepare the rooms upstairs for the occasion, and go out to buy cakes and coffee and flowers. He glanced around the sparkling kitchen and rolled down his sleeves, closing the door before heading upstairs to change his clothes.  
  
He was on his way back down again, trying to walk silently past Angelus' door when it opened.  
  
"Luc!"  
  
"Good morning." Luc turned around. "I hope I didn't wake you?"  
  
His employer looked wide awake, in fact, holding in his hand the letter that had arrived that morning. "No. I hadn't yet got to sleep. Going shopping?"  
  
Luc nodded.  
  
"Good. While you're out, please stop by a ladies' dressmakers and order a dark cloak, for a lady about your height. Perhaps a little shorter. As thick a material as they do at this time of year."  
  
Luc must have looked puzzled, for Angelus regarded him for a moment and then laughed. "Darla's coming. Be ready."  
  
"Who's Darla?" Luc asked.  
  
"She made me," Angelus said. "She misses me. Haven't you got shopping to do?"  
  
Luc bowed and hurried off down the stairs and out into the day. He stopped at a nearby boutique, and selected a roll of heavy, dark blue cloth and asked for it to be made into a cloak with a hood before moving on to the patisserie, the bakers, the grocers; and he returned to the house followed by a stream of delivery boys bearing goods. He arranged the food and glasses and delicate cups for the drinks on trays, distributing them around the best salon, and half-drawing the thick velvet curtains so that the room was shadowed, placing his master's favourite chair in a corner well out of the sunlight. He ran upstairs to change into his best suit and then went to help Angelus dress.  
  
The vampire was already in a silk shirt and velvet trousers, standing in front of an empty mirror in his bedroom. Luc picked up the tie lying on the bed and began to tie it, and then handed Angelus a waistcoat and coat to match the trousers, and adjusted the tie again for his employer, all the while watching himself in the mirror.  
  
"The room's all ready," he said, finally.  
  
Angelus smiled at the empty reflection. "Then let the torture begin," he said, crossing to the door. Luc hurried to hold it open. "Of course, torture would be a lot more fun," Angelus went on, conversationally, as Luc followed him down the corridor. "Sometimes, you know, Luc, the temptation is almost too much. Do stop me if you see me reaching for the poker. There's a time and a place for everything, and I'm quite enjoying this town. Mustn't give the game away too early."  
  
Luc's step had faltered for a moment, his earlier good mood fading, as he took in the reminder of his master's true nature. But then the doorbell rang, and he hurried down the stairs to answer it, shrugging off his fears, yet again. There was a job to do.  
  
"Madame la Comtesse de Barry," Luc announced. "Madame and mademoiselle de St. Juste … monsieur and madame Girard." He added the cards to the growing pile on the table in the hall and hung up another coat. "Madame Ducroix." Another hat, another parasol in the holder by the door. Inside the room, there was a buzz of chatter, glasses clinking, plates being put down. Luc caught the sound of Angelus laughing as he went to open the door again.  
  
He smiled, and bowed. "Welcome. May I take your cloaks, Mesdames?" He straightened up from the bow and paused for a split second. "What names shall I announce?"  
  
The elderly French woman passed him a card. "And my companion is Miss Rebecca Kent."  
  
Luc bowed again, avoiding eye contact with the English girl, whose cheeks were unnaturally flushed above the severe black dress she was wearing. "Madame la duchesse de Chateauroux and mademoiselle Rebecca Kent."  
  
They went in, and Luc leant against the wall, his heart beating too fast, his breath short, imagining what might be happening inside. Eventually he stood up again, forcing himself to control his breathing, and slipped into the room, picking up a bottle of wine and going around refilling the glasses of the guests. In the shadowed corner, Angelus was talking to the latest arrivals, and Luc worked his way around, his ears pricked.  
  
"And so you're English?" his master asked Rebecca Kent, his smile at the most charming. "Are you enjoying Paris?"  
  
"I'm showing her all the sights," her companion put in, accepting a glass from Luc. "We took a turn in the Tuileries after luncheon."  
  
"It must be a change from London," Angelus said. "A very different atmosphere, I find."  
  
Rebecca Kent forced a smile. "I would rather no change," she said softly in her accented French.  
  
"The poor dear's in mourning for her brother," the duchess said, leaning in towards Angelus and lowering her voice. "Such a tragedy, happened only a few weeks ago. Of course when her father asked that she stay with me whilst the death was investigated, I couldn't refuse."  
  
"And what might be the cause of the death?" Angelus asked lightly.  
  
"He was murdered," Rebecca Kent replied, her eyes glancing up and meeting her host's.  
  
Angelus shook his head. "Such a terrible thing. My sympathy to you, mademoiselle. I hope you don't find our company too light-hearted. Though perhaps it will take your mind off the grief?"  
  
Rebecca Kent moved a step closer to Angelus, and a step away from her chaperone who had turned to talk to another guest. Her voice lowering, and the language changing to English, she said, "I doubt that very much."  
  
Angelus regarded her for a moment, his smile not slipping. "I don't suppose the Council knows you're here? No. Of course not."  
  
Luc moved away, the conversation meaningless to him, but he heard Angelus' next words all the same.  
  
"You're playing a dangerous game, Miss Kent. Believe me, I shall enjoy playing it with you." He gestured to the plate of petits-fours nearby, and smoothly slipped back into French. "A bite to eat, mademoiselle?"  
  
Rebecca Kent paled and excused herself, and Angelus turned to a young woman next to him, bending to whisper something in her ear. Luc picked up three empty carafes and went to refill them in the kitchen.  
  
He hovered around the edges of the groups of guests all afternoon, listening to their small talk, watching the English girl, watching his employer as he effortlessly charmed everyone in the room – everyone, that is, except for Rebecca Kent who remained stubbornly silent whenever Angelus was near. Now and again she would look up and direct a glance in Luc's direction.  
  
Towards evening, people began to leave, offering their thanks and leaving invitations for Angelus for other parties, evenings at concerts, the theatre … Luc piled up the cards in a new stack on the hall table as he gave back coats and hats and parasols and bowed the guests out, collecting as he did a few coins for his pains. Soon there was only a handful of people left in the room now lit with candles, and unobtrusively he began to collect empty glasses and plates.  
  
More people left, and finally Rebecca Kent and her companion stood up to take their leave. And then it all seemed to happen at once. Luc picked up a glass, placing it on his tray, and opened his mouth to ask if he should get the ladies' things. Angelus bowed slightly towards the duchess and turned to the English girl, who, if possible, was paler than before, fumbling in a pocket attached to the waistband of her dress. Luc and the duchess noticed at once, both moving towards her, but Rebecca Kent had her hand free of the material, clutching a short, sharp wooden stake. She brought it up, aiming at Angelus. His eyes narrowed, and he sidestepped, moving even as Luc noticed what the girl was doing; catching her arm and twisting sharply. The stake fell to the ground. Rebecca Kent followed it, crumpling on to the carpet.  
  
There was silence. For a moment, nobody moved a muscle. Then Luc hurried forwards to the girl, followed by the duchess. Over them, Angelus straightened his coat and moved deliberately to the door.  
  
"Rebecca!" the duchess said. "Rebecca, wake up." She looked at Luc. "Do you have smelling salts?"  
  
"I don't think so, madame," Luc said. "There's cognac."  
  
"Wake up!" The elderly lady fanned her charge with a handkerchief. "We need to go. It's still light outside, we have to go."  
  
The door to the room closed sharply, and they looked up.  
  
"Nobody's going anywhere," Angelus said, leaning against it.  
  
The duchess scrambled to her feet, surprisingly agile for an old woman, and grasping at a chain around her neck pulled a crucifix out. "Begone, demon!" she cried.  
  
Luc felt something inside him squeezing, his mouth going dry, his heart accelerating. He wanted to do something. He wanted to sweep the stake off the floor where it lay, so close, so close, to pick it up and drive it into the heart of his employer. He put out a hand towards the weapon, tentatively, hoping Angelus would not see.  
  
"Luc. Stand up, move away from the girl, and away from that stake."  
  
Hope died inside Luc, and he obeyed, recognising the note in the vampire's voice.  
  
"And you, madame," the scorn rich in Angelus' voice, "put that trinket away and sit down before your knees give way. I'm surprised you're in on mademoiselle Kent's little plot too."  
  
"I have friends in the Council," the duchess said coldly. "Though I would not have advised that Rebecca strike tonight. She's blinded by grief."  
  
"And how," Angelus asked, his voice soft and deadly, "did the Council discover I was here?"  
  
The old lady held her chin up high and met the vampire's eyes. "You think you're clever, don't you? Acting like one of us, giving your parties, charming all and sundry. You bring attention to yourself."  
  
"What can I say?" Angelus shrugged. "I like attention. Now who was the girl's brother? One of those men I dismembered the other week – Luc saw the aftermath of that, didn't you, my Luc? Quite a work of art." He moved forwards, into the room, towards the duchess. "But I think I may surpass that tonight. A shame nobody will see it."  
  
"You can't kill us," the duchess said. "Too many people know we were here."  
  
Angelus struck a pose in the middle of the room. "Oh, la duchesse de Chateauroux and her charming English friend?" he said, to nobody in particular. "Such a shame – the poor girl was taken ill as they left and the duchess decided to hurry her back to England." He relaxed. "And in any case, madame Ducroix said how extraordinary it was to see you in company again after so many years of isolation."  
  
Luc stood frozen, watching the easy stance of Angelus and the brave, but visibly trembling one of the old lady. Yet he knew that if he moved again something dreadful would happen.  
  
On the floor, Rebecca Kent shifted and moaned. Luc darted a glance at Angelus.  
  
"Sir? Can I … help her up? Give her a drink?"  
  
Angelus crossed the room to the girl and, disdainfully looking down at her, bent and picked up the stake, twirling it between his long fingers. "Go on, then."  
  
Luc hurried to the girl's side, and nervously helped her to the nearest chair before finding a glass and some cognac and tipping it down her throat. She spluttered, and coughed, and opened her eyes, and Luc was bending to check she was all right when something hit his cheek, hard, and it all went mercifully black.  
  
* * *  
  
The room was dark when Luc woke up, swimming through clouds of mist to consciousness. His head hurt, and he sat slowly upright, clutching at the chair nearby to help himself.  
  
He noticed first that the body of the English girl had disappeared from beside him, and for a moment he wondered whether he had dreamt the whole sequence of events. Then, he clambered to his feet, his head spinning, and crossed slowly to a candle still burning on the sideboard. He grasped the candlestick, breathing in deeply to quell his nausea, and turned towards the room, preparing to head out of the door in search of water. And then, he saw the duchess.  
  
She was sprawled on a chaise-longue, her empty eyes staring at nothing. On the floor, next to a dangling, limp hand lay the crucifix. But her head was twisted at an obscene angle and as Luc, trembling, crossed to her and felt her wrist, he realised that she had been dead for some hours.  
  
For a moment Luc thought he was going to faint again, and he put down the candlestick on a table just in case. Then the dizziness passed, and he bent and closed the old lady's eyes, murmuring a prayer for her and wrapping the crucifix around her hand.  
  
The door was open now, and Luc, carrying the candlestick, began to climb the stairs. He was still wobbly on his legs, and if anything the wobbliness grew as he arrived at the first landing and prepared to pass his master's room. He took a deep breath and set off along the strip of carpet, trying not to make a sound; and had almost reached the flight of stairs leading to his attic room when the door opened.  
  
"You're awake."  
  
Luc turned to see Angelus leaning on the doorframe of his room in shirt and trousers. He bit his lip not to say anything, and turned his back to start climbing the stairs.  
  
"Luc, there's work to be done."  
  
Luc put his foot on the first step and gripped his candlestick so his knuckles were white.  
  
"Are you going to leave the woman lying there downstairs?" Angelus said. "Not very … Christian of you."  
  
Luc stopped walking.  
  
"No, I didn't think so. Go and change your clothes. Fetch me some water in a jug, and then I'll let you know where I want you to dispose of her."  
  
"And if I didn't?" Luc whispered, his voice hoarse.  
  
"You don't want me to make you do it," Angelus said, frowning thoughtfully. "If I have to make you, I won't complain. Much. But then you'd probably be incapable of doing anything for a week, and I don't want that. Go on. Hurry up."  
  
Luc moved, climbing the stairs as quickly as he could, and once in his room threw off his suit and pulled on old clothes. He found that his eyes were stinging and wet, and for a moment he contemplated his old bag thrown in a corner, and the prospect of running. But then he caught sight of the livid scar on his neck, and a part of his spirit died inside him.  
  
He tapped at Angelus' door with the jug of water and a glass, and pushed it open at the command, keeping his eyes on his burden. He only lifted them as he got close to the bed.  
  
Angelus shot out a hand, catching the jug before the contents spilt on the expensive carpet, and placing it on the bedside table.  
  
Luc's throat tightened, and through eyes that were now blurred, said, "no."  
  
Angelus picked up the glass that had fallen harmlessly on the thick rug by his bed, lay back against deep pillows, and ran a finger along the stream of blood leaking from Rebecca Kent's neck, licking it thoughtfully and watching Luc with a gleam in his eye.  
  
"God, no." Luc took a step backwards, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeves, trying to wipe away the nightmare.  
  
"I think God has little to do with this, don't you, my boy?" Angelus said. "What is God, in any case? Some concept dreamt up by priests to keep humans happy. Keep them obedient. Not, of course, that it works … you like to think that God is all-powerful and that below God comes the human race. And, of course, you'd all be wrong. The human race is weak, Luc, weak and pathetic. You're just finding this out. I expect it's a shock."  
  
"You killed them both!" Luc said. He lifted his head and glared at Angelus through his tears. "They'd done nothing to you, nothing."  
  
"They knew what I am. Who I am. Self-defence, nothing more."  
  
Luc stared at the body lying on the bed; at the ripped clothing and the red liquid marking the covers, the pale skin of the girl, and, now he realised, the shirt Angelus was wearing.  
  
"Self-defence?" he said. "They had nothing compared to what I know."  
  
"But," Angelus said, rising from his supine position in one fluid, easy movement, and moving to Luc, "you wouldn't say anything, to anybody, would you?" He ran a finger along Luc's jaw and it came to rest over the scar. "You know why not. You belong to me." Luc closed his eyes, and nodded. He knew it was the truth. Angelus smiled, almost fondly. "My Luc. You belong to me."  
  
  
  
* Da garout ar an = I love you (Breton) 


	6. Darla

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
  
  
Les Chroniques Parisiennes – Chronique 6: Darla  
  
Luc stood at the window of the newly furnished room and stared out at the night. Across the city, lights twinkled in windows and on the streets, and the great bells of Notre Dame rang out nine o'clock.  
  
He turned, closing the dark blue curtains, and surveyed the room. New blue wallpaper, and covers and curtains for the four-poster bed which had been manhandled up the stairs. A closet, standing half-empty – Luc opened the doors and examined the rich dresses which were folded carefully there, fingering the silk gently, before shutting them away again and adjusting a vase on the dressing table nearby. A cloth hung over the mirror. The occupant of this room would need it no more than the master of the house needed his mirrors. Yet there was a new set of hairbrushes set out on the table itself, and a flask of perfume.  
  
For a moment, a spark caught fire in Luc's heart, and he contemplated placing a bottle or three of Holy Water in between the sheets of the bed, or nailing a crucifix to the wall. But then it died again, and he picked up the wood polish by the bed and left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.  
  
There had been little or no disruption to life since he had carried the dead bodies of the duchesse de Chateauroux and her English companion out into the night, abandoning them in a dark alleyway. But Luc's nights had become restless, after he crawled into bed after midnight. He slept badly if at all and woke in a cold sweat, his dreams full of blood and death and the laughing eyes of his employer.  
  
Now, the door of Angelus' study was open as Luc passed it, and he caught a glimpse of the vampire pacing up and down inside the room, waiting.  
  
It was another hour before Luc, sitting in the kitchen with a glass of wine and a book open in front of him, heard the rattle of wheels in the forecourt. He closed the book, drained the wine, and hurried to the front door, opening it as Angelus appeared down the stairs. His master was dressed in his best, and he stood in the hallway as the coachman reined in the horses and jumped down from the box to open the door. Steps were placed ready, and the coachman held out a hand.  
  
A small, begloved hand took the large one of the coachman, and a delicate foot in a dove-grey shoe ventured out of the carriage. Skirts of a slighter darker grey followed, and then Luc drew in his breath. Blonde hair, and a sweet, petite face; a smiling mouth and dancing eyes.  
  
"Thank you," the vision said to the coachman. "My bags?"  
  
He nodded, and began to reach them down from the roof. The woman smiled to herself, and came towards the open door. Luc bowed.  
  
"Welcome to Paris, madame."  
  
She paused, and looked at him, and smiled again, laughing. "Thank you." And then she looked up and past Luc, and suddenly the smile was gone.  
  
Angelus bowed too, taking the woman's hand and kissing it. "Darla."  
  
"My darling boy," she said. "So this is where you've been hiding from me."  
  
Luc let the English conversation wash over him and helped the coachman carry Darla's bags into the house, and then paid him and watched the coach rattle away again before closing the door.  
  
Angelus broke off a lingering kiss, which made Luc's cheeks blush scarlet and his ears hot. "Darla, my love, this is Luc Tarpeau. For now, he's my only servant."  
  
"He's human," Darla said, her voice low.  
  
"Always useful, don't you think, to have someone who can run errands in the daytime? He knows. He's wonderful."  
  
Darla wandered closer to Luc, who kept his back straight and looked at the wall beyond her, determined not to show them his fear. She came up to him and folded down his collar, examining the scar left by Angelus' teeth now so many months ago. "Hmm."  
  
Angelus grinned. "Hmm what? Don't you approve?"  
  
Darla's touch was soft and cool, and Luc started as he felt her hand brush his. "I approve entirely. Now he can take my things to my room, and you and I, my boy, will go and find someone to eat. I'm famished."  
  
"You heard her," Angelus said. "Take Darla's bags to her room, unpack them, and then you're free."  
  
"Yes." Luc nodded his head. "All right."  
  
Angelus took his hat from the table by the door, and offered his arm to Darla. "Madame?"  
  
She laughed again, showing perfect white teeth. "Monsieur." Taking his arm in hers, they left.  
  
It took Luc five journeys to lug the suitcases, bags and one particularly heavy trunk up the stairs to Darla's room. Once there he perched on the end of the bed for a moment to catch his breath, and then began methodically to unpack.  
  
Darla seemed to have a hundred dresses of different hues, all beautifully made, though Luc noticed that several were old-fashioned. He folded them in the closet, and then began to pile hat boxes on the top shelf. Shoes, next; ten pairs, all tiny and delicate. Gloves and scarves went in the chest of drawers along with piles of underclothes, some of which made Luc's cheeks go red all over again. In a valise he discovered makeup and jewellery, and placed it on the dressing table before surveying the room again. It almost looked lived in, he mused to himself, before shaking his head and remembering, and starting to take the boxes away to store them in an empty cupboard.  
  
He was in bed, dozing fitfully, when Darla and Angelus returned. He heard laughter from below, and turned over, putting a pillow over his head to block out the sound. The laughter seemed to go on for a while, and Luc drifted off to sleep with it ringing in his ears.  
  
In the morning, he continued with the cleaning of the house. Not for the first time, Luc found himself wishing he was not alone in having to care for such a large building, as he cleaned windows and dusted furniture. He was standing in the parlour wondering whether to beat the carpets when Darla entered and stood just inside the door, watching him.  
  
Luc broke off his contemplation of the carpets and glanced up, startled.  
  
"The curtains?" Darla said, her voice soft and strangely accented.  
  
Luc nodded, and went to close them, sighing as the daylight was shut out. Darla came into the room and sat down, watching Luc as he began to roll up the smaller carpets.  
  
"Are you happy here?" she asked, after a while.  
  
He straightened up and turned to her, examining her pretty face in the half- light of the shadowed room. "That depends what you mean by happy, madame."  
  
She waved a white hand in the air. "I hoped you'd know, you're the human one here. Content. Pleased to be alive, if you can possibly be pleased to live."  
  
"I'm kept busy. I send some money to my family," Luc replied guardedly.  
  
"But you're scared of my boy, aren't you?" She smiled, seemingly pleased by the thought. "But of course you are, who isn't?"  
  
Luc piled a carpet on top of another and considered. "You'd know if I wasn't, though, wouldn't you, madame? And would it matter?"  
  
"If you weren't scared?" Darla fiddled with the lace edge on her flimsy robe. "Matter? I don't know." She stood up, and stretched. "Got any books in this house?"  
  
Luc told her where the library was, and she wandered off in the right direction.  
  
He soon found that looking after two people, and one of them female, was far harder than looking after one. There were more clothes to wash, for starters, and Darla's elaborate dresses took hours of washing and ironing. Luc seemed to spend all his days with his sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in soapy water with a washboard by his side. To make matters worse, both Angelus and Darla now seemed to get more stains on their clothes, reddish- brown stains that needed rubbing and bleaching to be got out. On the plus side, for a while there were fewer evenings in the house to organise, and Luc began to be able to escape for a drink with his friends more often. They questioned him closely on his life, and he managed to laugh most of the questions off. He continued to send money home with falsely cheerful notes for the priest to read to his parents and heard back that the doctor's son had indeed proposed to his sister. One day he bought her a necklace with some of his savings, and sent it to her with a promise to make it home for the wedding. Part of him knew that he would not be able to get away, but his stubborn streak continued to hope.  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said one night, bidding his friends farewell. They raised tankards of wine at him.  
  
"No parties?" said one.  
  
"Not till Saturday," Luc replied. "Then there's a big one planned."  
  
"Till tomorrow!" they called, and he waved and made his way out of the tavern into the night.  
  
He was halfway home before he became aware that there was someone following him, footsteps hurrying along at double the pace of his. Eventually he stopped, and turned around, his hand on the wooden stake he always carried outdoors these days.  
  
"Monsieur Tarpeau!" The priest stopped walking, and stood panting a little. "You walk fast."  
  
Luc glanced around. "There are strange things out at night."  
  
"Evil things," the priest said darkly. "Luc, we had reports of a woman hunting with Angelus. Do you know anything about it?"  
  
"Darla?" Luc said, automatically. "I …"  
  
"How long has she been here?" the priest asked, taking his elbow and steering him into a corner. "Why did you not come?"  
  
Luc twisted out of the priest's grip. "You must know what happened, Father? I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ever came to this city, sorry I wasn't happy at home watching my father's sheep with the sea air in my lungs. But I want to get out of here now, and I won't do that by talking. I doubt he'll ever let me go."  
  
"I understand, Luc." The priest looked genuinely sorry for him. "But just tell me. How long has Darla been here?"  
  
"A fortnight," Luc said eventually. "Just a fortnight. I don't know what they've done. What are you going to do? Send someone else to get killed?"  
  
The priest smiled. "That's not for me to decide."  
  
Luc opened his mouth to reply, thinking of getting safely back to the house before the night got too late, and of all that he had to do the next day. Then he felt something around his neck; an iron grip cutting off his breathing, and a soft voice said, "this is all very interesting. Isn't it, my love?"  
  
Darla took the priest's hand in hers thoughtfully. "It's fascinating," she replied.  
  
Luc twisted to confirm that the arm around his neck belonged to Angelus, and thought about struggling for a moment. But his vision was going blurry, and he did not think he would make it very far. He saw the blurred Darla's face undergo that terrifying change, and her teeth sink into the priest's neck before he blacked out. His last thought was that he had never asked the old man's real name. 


	7. Coming Home

Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Author's notes: thanks to Imzadi for constant reviews! Much appreciated.  
  
Les Chroniques Parisiennes – Chronique 7: Coming Home  
  
  
  
Luc came to consciousness gradually. He supposed it was a lot later. He remained still and gently flexed his wrists and ankles, discovering that they were bound tightly to something with rope, and that he could not move. He seemed to be on his back and there were pillows beneath his head and soft linen sheets. Cautiously, he opened his eyes and found himself staring up at the burgundy-coloured canopy of a four-poster bed.  
  
"Welcome back." The voice was soft and dripping with irony and barely- controlled anger. Luc swallowed, and remembered speaking with the priest … blacking out. He closed his eyes again.  
  
"So, Luc." The voice cut into his thoughts. "It was you who let the Council know I was here, was it?"  
  
"The who?" Luc opened his eyes and turned his head as far as he could. "No. It wasn't like that."  
  
Angelus stood up from his chair in the corner, laying down a book, and came and sat on the edge of the bed next to Luc. Luc felt the mattress sink under the vampire's weight and shivered involuntarily.  
  
"It was the night your … friend came, the English one, the one who played the violin. Remember … I had to find you those children. I got drunk. I found myself near a church, and the priest persuaded me to confess."  
  
"I used to hate going to confession," Angelus said thoughtfully. "Go on. You're behaving very sensibly, so far."  
  
"I confessed. I told him what I'd done. That I was working here. I didn't expect him to believe me …"  
  
"Priests know what goes on in the night," Angelus interrupted. "Unluckily for the more stupid of my kind, they know all too well."  
  
"But he did. He knew your name." Luc shifted on the bed, trying to get more comfortable in his bonds. "He wrote a letter, asked me to post it … that was all."  
  
Angelus stood up, and went to his chest of drawers. He opened the middle drawer and began to hunt for something inside. "That was all?"  
  
"Honestly. Yes."  
  
Angelus turned around, twirling a dagger between his fingers. "Luc. Should you fail to be honest with me, this will be a very long and drawn out process. For you, not for me. I have forever. You have as long as you choose."  
  
"I've told you everything!" Luc said, feeling with a shiver the point of the dagger against his neck.  
  
"The English girl." The dagger bit into his skin, and Luc felt a drop of cool blood run into the collar of his shirt.  
  
"She came to the door." Luc flinched as Angelus bent forwards and carefully licked the drop of blood. "She knew who I was, who you were …"  
  
He felt cold fingers take his hand. "Carry on," the vampire said, softly.  
  
"She wanted to kill you." Pressure on the hand, and then Luc felt blinding pain surging through his body. He screamed.  
  
Angelus laughed. "That's right, scream away, my boy. There's absolutely nothing like the sound of a scream. Darla taught me that."  
  
"Where is she?" Luc managed, as the pain subsided to a throb in his hand.  
  
"She's not in the mood for torture. She's in one of her 'don't play with your food' moods. Probably still out. Now, what about that Kent girl?"  
  
"She wanted to kill you," Luc repeated, and the pain was there again, twice as bad now.  
  
"You've said that already."  
  
"I stopped her."  
  
"You did?" Angelus unbound Luc's left wrist and examined it. "Did anyone ever tell you how appetising smooth young skin is? No, I don't suppose they did."  
  
"I told her to go away." Above him, Angelus' face underwent the transformation which always sent shivers through Luc's body. This time, it made him want to run, as fast and as far as he could. Yellow eyes glared and through a mouthful of fangs, Angelus spoke again.  
  
"To go away? So why did she come back?" The teeth were bared, and pricked into Luc's wrist. Luc felt a sensation that was half-tugging, half- soothing. He struggled to think.  
  
"She asked me not to say anything …" he tried. The yellow eyes morphed back to accusing brown, and Luc's head was flung to one side with the force of the blow.  
  
"You were supposed to tell me everything," Angelus said, Luc's blood staining his lips. "I'm disappointed, Luc. I trusted you. Well, I trusted you as far as I've ever trusted anyone. Yet, you betrayed me. Why?"  
  
"I don't know." The pain in his hand seemed to be getting worse, and Luc's vision was blurring with tears and weakness. "What did you expect? I'm human. I was scared."  
  
"Do you know why I chose you, Luc?" Angelus asked, leaning back companionably against the backboard of the bed. "Someone with no training for the job? Because I liked you. You had courage, you didn't run away screaming that first day. I thought you'd be sensible. Of course I always knew that one day I'd be forced to kill you – well, maybe not forced – but I hoped it'd be further into the future than this. You were doing so well."  
  
"So kill me," Luc said, gathering his strength together. "Get it done with. That priest was right."  
  
"He was, was he? And what did he say?" Angelus' voice was silken-smooth now, menacing and ice-cold. Luc turned his head and met the eyes glinting with gold full on.  
  
"That you were clever. But that hiring me could be your undoing. He meant you think you're clever, that you've hidden your trails, that nobody's noticed. But people talk. We're not so stupid after all, us humans." Luc braced himself for more pain, for the attack he knew would surely come.  
  
Angelus, incongruously, laughed.  
  
"And not such cowards either. Perhaps I did choose the right one after all." He leant forwards, and carefully removed Luc's loose tie and collar, opening his shirt and brushing the skin of his throat with long cold fingers. "Perhaps I did."  
  
The vampire smiled, and then the eyes turned golden and the fangs lengthened, and Luc felt the bite over his jugular. With his last senses, he heard a deep, contented growl from Angelus, and watched the canopy grow darker.  
  
He thought that his mouth was forced open, and something warm and sticky was poured down it, but then everything went black. The pain faded, and Luc Tarpeau died.  
  
* * *  
  
"Ah, sea air!" Angelus stood next to the coach, and looked out over the moonlit water. "Sometimes I miss that."  
  
"This place is as much of a dead-end as Galway," Darla complained from inside the coach. "Why on earth did you insist on coming, my darling?"  
  
"Because it's not fair if he doesn't get to eat his family. I had mine. Still the best meal of the lot. And there's a wedding, Darla – don't you love weddings?"  
  
"My sister's wedding," the third occupant of the coach said, climbing out to join Angelus. "She'll be so excited to see me." Luc grinned at Angelus. "I remember now why I left home. But the sea … it never smelt like this, before."  
  
"Before you were alive," Darla said.  
  
"And I thought I was so lucky," Luc said. "Now I know better."  
  
He walked back to the coach, Angelus at his side. "I feel so … I can see everything, feel everything, hear everything."  
  
"Now don't get carried away," Darla said, as they climbed in, closed the doors and called for the coachman to start driving again. She turned to Angelus. "Fledglings are always so sweetly enthusiastic."  
  
Angelus rested a hand on Luc's shoulder. "I think he's doing remarkably well, considering what he was. I'm looking forward to this wedding."  
  
They fell silent, as the coach rattled over cobblestones and drew to a halt outside a hall from which light came. There was the sound of dancing and loud, raucous Breton music.  
  
Luc got out of the coach and, flanked by Darla and Angelus, pushed open the doors of the hall. Inside, the villagers turned to the door, and from their midst, a girl in white came running.  
  
"Luc! Luc! You came!"  
  
"Yes, Marie, I came." Luc let his sister enfold him. "I came home."  
  
FIN. 


End file.
